


we go so fast we don't move

by obbel



Category: Latin American Celebrities RPF, Reggaeton RPF
Genre: Colombia - Freeform, Established Relationship, Homesickness, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 12:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/pseuds/obbel
Summary: Long distance relationship post-VMA pre-Arcoíris feelings.





	we go so fast we don't move

**Author's Note:**

> In the car, in the car, in the backseat, I'm your baby  
We go fast, we go so fast, we don’t move  
I believe in a place you take me  
Make you real proud of your baby  
In your car, I'm a star and I'm burnin’ through you  
In your car, I'm a star and I'm burnin' through you
> 
> — Lana Del Rey, "Love Song"

_ “Felicidades, papi! _ I’m so proud of you!” His reception isn’t that great, but even through the grainy video feed, Maluma’s grin is just as big as Balvin’s.

_ “Ganamos, carajo! Ganamos!” _ Balvin’s yelling at the screen, too wired to talk, still high on the adrenaline of performing and _ winning. _He screams and laughs and tries not to cry, and Maluma is right there with him, reciprocating the same energy through the phone. It’s almost as good as the real thing. Until it’s not.

Nicole knocks at the door, saying, “Hey, _ mister premiado, _we gotta get you going! Wrap it up.”

“Okay, okay, _ voy ya.” _ Balvin shouts to her through the door. He turns back to Maluma. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“It’s fine. Go enjoy your party. You deserve it. _ Te amo.” _

_ “También,” _ Balvin says quickly and ends the call. 

Nicole whisks him through an outfit change into a better fitting suit. She not so gently encourages him to lose the zip ties, too. The rest of the night is a blur, parties and people and politely declining drinks until Balvin thinks his next outfit should just be a sign around his neck that says _ “no tomo, gracias.”_

He ducks out as early as he can get away with and collapses back onto his hotel bed in New Jersey, wondering if it would be weird to show up at the same Colombian bakery he went to yesterday. He shouldn’t. He’s already had his cheat day, and he really needs to put something healthy into his body, but he falls asleep fantasizing about _ pan de bono, _ and it’s a surprise to no one when he drags Nicole and the rest of the crew out to Passaic for the second time in as many days. He stuffs his face with fried _ empanadas _ that have whole eggs inside, wondering how they manage to do that.

“Slow down, killer,” Nicole says, eyeing the grease covering his fingers. “We’re supposed to be back on that meal plan.”

“I won,” Balvin says. “I am a national treasure, making the country proud, just like these make me proud.” He waves an _ empanada _ at her. 

Nicole rolls her eyes and goes back to her sensible breakfast of coffee and toast. At least she has the decency to drink Juan Valdéz.

—

Balvin regrets his dietary transgressions, later, on the plane.

“Ugh,” he groans, slumping back in his seat, one hand on his stomach. “Nicole, I’m dying. Why didn’t you stop me?”

Nicole ignores him. Balvin thinks he’s been spared, but then she comes at him with a thermometer, that she keeps on her, for some unknown reason, and shoves it in his mouth. She waits for the beep, then takes it out and looks at his temperature.

“You’re fine, you big baby. I told you not to eat all that.” There it is.

Balvin sulks for a minute, still groaning theatrically. Nicole puts her headphones on. He glares at her, and she smiles placidly. Balvin pulls out his phone, opens up FaceTime.

_ “Parce, _ how do they get the eggs inside?” Balvin asks.

“Inside of what?” Maluma looks a little concerned. “What eggs?”

“Those little _ empanadas fritas, _ you know. _ Con el huevo entero.” _

“Oh,” says Maluma, relieved. “It’s a pain in the ass, man. Yudy used to make them before she went vegan.”

“But how?”

“You boil the eggs for one minute, seriously, and put them inside. Yudy made me peel them. It’s hard. Why am I telling you this? You don’t cook.”

“I cook,” Balvin says. Maluma looks unconvinced.

“Bullshit. What’s the last thing you cooked?”

Balvin looks away from the camera. When he glances back, Maluma’s expression is eerily similar to Nicole’s I-told-you-so-face.

“Whatever,” Balvin huffs. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for José to come kill me.”

Balvin quirks an eyebrow. “I think it’s flattering you picked a trainer with the same name as me.”

“I yell his name, too,” Maluma says, voice disgustingly implicative. Balvin rolls his eyes, and Maluma laughs. “But it’s a plea for help. _ José, mátame, no me tortures más.” _

“Stop, you’re turning me on,” Balvin deadpans. Maluma winks. Balvin blows him a kiss.

“I gotta go. He’s here.” Maluma grimaces. 

“Don’t die. I’ll be sad.”

Maluma rolls his eyes. “Love you, too.”

—

They land in Medellín in the afternoon. For all the madness that comes with the lifestyle he’s chosen, at least now he owns a plane. He can come home whenever he wants. They touch down at the airport, and the whole ride home he thinks about how much he’s missed this.

The road takes them up the mountains first. He’s driven this route so many times, but the anticipation is always the same, a cinematic buildup to the scene he knows is coming. He’s like a kid, nose pressed up against the window, waiting for the descent, for the road to turn quickly downward and reveal the city in all its glory. He almost makes the driver pull over and stop, but he doesn’t have time. He soaks in as much as he can, wondering why he ever leaves at all. He would be perfectly happy to die in the same place he was born. That’s the plan, if everything goes his way. And if it happened tomorrow, at least he’d be at home.

He lets himself into his own house with his own key, feeling the relief wash over him, taking ten kilos off his shoulders. But as soon as his bag hits the ground, he’s back out the door. He can’t stay there. He’ll never leave if he does. 

It’s okay, though. He’s outside, breathing the right kind of air again. He leaves his property, takes his motorcycle and wanders aimlessly through the nearby neighborhood, wondering how it’s possible to miss a place he hasn’t left yet. Maybe it’s the anticipation, knowing he has less than a day here before he’s gone again.

His thoughts are interrupted by a small group of pedestrians. They recognize him, of course. The hair is a bit of a giveaway. So is the Ducati, probably. They chat for a while, congratulating him on the win and asking for pictures and hugs. Balvin smiles, a real smile, for every request. Fans are never an imposition. They are the reason he has what he has, and he takes as many selfies as they want, answers as many questions as they have.

He’s getting ready to leave when the youngest girl, maybe eight years old and still in her school uniform, taps him on the shoulder.

_ “Te amo,” _ she says, voice high and clear and unwavering. Her accent is unmistakable, so achingly authentic after all the time he’s been away that it cuts through his melancholy, stabs him right in the heart. He blinks back tears, not wanting to unload his emotional baggage onto a child. He tells her he loves her, too, and he thinks about her long after he leaves them.

Being in his house still feels too dangerous, so he goes to his parent’s instead. He shows up unannounced, and his mom bursts into tears. That does it for him. He’s never been able to resist her. They cry together, hugging and laughing, too. His dad joins them, clandestinely wiping away a tear or two from the corner of his eye. 

His mom invites him to stay, trying to feed him more than any one person should reasonably consume. He wants to, but he suddenly feels the need to go. He’s intruding on his parents, although they would never describe it that way. They have their own lives, and him dropping by unexpectedly is a happy surprise, but he doesn’t want to interrupt them for too long. He leaves with a small mountain of food, more to appease his mom than because he’s actually hungry, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

He puts the containers away when he gets home, sits on his couch and thinks about his obligations. He takes care of the easiest one first, posting a quick video on Instagram to announce the extra tickets going on sale for his next show. Then he lies on the couch with his eyes closed, lights still on, fully clothed. It’s not late enough yet to go to sleep, but he considered it. He stays like that for who knows how long until he realizes he _ is _ falling asleep. He drags himself off the couch and out the door.

—

Maluma is out on his balcony when Balvin arrives. He can just barely see him from the driveway, trees partially obscuring the view. Maluma yells something, but Balvin can’t make out what it is. He has a pretty good idea, though.

He drives through the gate, parks his car, and lets himself in, walking through Maluma’s house to the upper balcony. Maluma’s still outside wearing gym clothes, leaning against the railing, his back to the door. He smells like post-workout.

“I thought maybe you weren’t going to come see me,” he says. His voice is fairly even, but Balvin detects a hostile edge to his words. Balvin walks up to stand beside him, leaving half a meter of space between them. He looks at Maluma. 

“I’m not that much of an asshole.”

Maluma shrugs. “You didn’t call. I found out second hand that you came back today.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t even planning to come.”

“It’s fine,” Maluma’s mouth says, but the rest of his body language says otherwise.

“Really, I’m sorry. I just,” he trails off, looking down at the trees below them. “I always want to be here. I think about it all the time. But coming back for one day is like the worst version of getting what you want. And it’s the same with you.”

Maluma looks unconvinced. “But you are here. Why does it matter how long?”

“Because that’s not enough. It’s never enough time here, and it’s never enough time with you.”

Maluma turns to face him, leaning an elbow on the railing instead of his whole body. Balvin mirrors his position. “Your sweet words are not going to seduce me. You’re still an asshole.”

“I’m not,” Balvin starts, and Maluma raises an eyebrow. “Okay, yes, I am. But I just mean that I hate seeing you for a couple hours and then leaving. I miss you more later.”

“So you’d rather not see me at all? That’s stupid. You’re so—” Maluma cuts himself off. Balvin’s pretty sure Maluma was about to call him stupid. Which isn’t entirely unwarranted. “You’re unbelievable,” he says instead. “Come here.”

Maluma grabs his arm and pulls him in, closing the distance between them. “I don’t care if it’s one hour or one second. Come see me. I miss you all the time, too. You think it’s just you who gets homesick?”

Balvin doesn’t have a good response. Spelled out before him, yes, his behavior is ill-thought out at best. He should have come here earlier.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“I know. I know how you get. Just try not to?”

“Uh,” Balvin says, laughing weakly. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“That’s a good question.”

“Because I love you, you fucking idiot.”

Balvin makes a face, less at the insult than at the declaration. He does love Maluma. He’s even said as much, but not often. And not in such an emotional state. The first time he said it, he thought Maluma was asleep. Only the next morning did he realize otherwise. Maluma had peered at him over coffee, one eyebrow raised over the mug. “So,” he’d said. “You didn’t want to tell me face to face?” Balvin had feigned obliviousness, and Maluma let him get away with it for all of three seconds before rolling his eyes. “I love you, too. I hope you know that.” After that, there’d been an unspoken agreement that it was just another one of Balvin’s many _ things. _

“Hey,” Maluma says, snapping his fingers. “You still with me? _ Estoy diciendo que yo te amo.” _

“I knew that already,” Balvin says, frowning. Maluma looks exasperated. Balvin takes his hand, laces their fingers together over the balcony. Maluma cuts his eyes at Balvin, but doesn’t move away. “And I love you. So much.”

“So act like it.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”

Maluma gives him another disapproving look, and Balvin hates it, even though he knows he deserves it.

“Thank you for putting up with me,” he says, touching Maluma’s face with his free hand. “I’ll do better.”

“Okay,” Maluma says, and he lets himself be thoroughly kissed, so Balvin knows he hasn’t totally fucked things up. “Come on.” He drags Balvin towards the house. “Sometimes people can see up here.”

“Let them,” Balvin says, but he follows Maluma inside, hurriedly, and keeps kissing him until Maluma stops sneaking insults in between each breath and starts making low, needy, whining noises instead. By the time they hit the bed, Balvin has thought of several creative ways to apologize.

—

He leaves in the morning, early. Maluma is already awake, pulling on a different set of matching workout clothes, complaining about how Josés ruin his life and how he’s never going to let another one in.

“I hope you don’t,” Balvin says in response. “I hope I’m enough for you.” Maluma stops in his tracks, frozen by Balvin’s words. Balvin hadn’t meant to be so brutally honest at four thirty in the morning, but he doesn’t take it back.

“Why would you,” Maluma starts to ask, then stops, staring at Balvin incredulously. His shirt is halfway on, and he lets it fall unevenly over his stomach. “Why would you think that you’re not?”

“I know how I am. And I know how difficult it is sometimes. With the schedule, and the, you know, the way I can be. I’m sorry.”

“I knew what I was getting into,” Maluma says simply. “I’m a big boy.”

Balvin laughs. “Yeah, you are.” He grabs Maluma’s bicep, and Maluma flexes, grinning. Balvin muscles his arm down, and Maluma fights him at first, but he gives in quickly, lets himself be held. Balvin kisses him softly, hands on his waist, taking advantage of his partial state of undress. He leans in to say quietly, “I love you. I’m sorry.”

“I love you, too. But you gotta go or the other José’s gonna fire me as a client.” Maluma’s wearing gym shorts, and they’re pretty thin. Balvin smirks at him.

“I’ll call you when I get to Puerto Rico. Or maybe after the show,” he says. He pauses to leer at Maluma some more. “Maybe it will be phone sex.”

Maluma smirks right back. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“I wished for you, and I got you. It can’t be worse than that.”

_ “You _are the worst. Get out of my house. I love you.” Maluma kisses him again, quickly, before shoving him towards the door. “Call me later. Phone sex or not. I want to hear about everything. You’re gonna be amazing.”

Balvin leaves smiling, and he stays that way the whole plane ride through.

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/obbel/33895136/869/869_900.jpg) [real events](https://scontent-vie1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/68770221_10156611908040036_6229408097828339712_n.jpg?_nc_cat=106&_nc_oc=AQm9gdGgIixP0XMAefWqkSDWuTh0vVTQjR0zcOiI5qBMLNdW1AHaP0M6v2LLjh-nJEFnXxEntxps2Xe0tlo2I3ML&_nc_ht=scontent-vie1-1.xx&oh=2b54cc5cfa3517c1026d5e7bb90a7011&oe=5E122CA2) [because I'm nothing](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/obbel/33895136/1026/1026_900.jpg) [if not](https://obbel.livejournal.com/video/album/263/?mode=view&id=752) [loyal to](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/obbel/33895136/1293/1293_900.png) ["cannon."](https://obbel.livejournal.com/video/album/263/?mode=view&id=1013) Lol jk. Also, I wrote this in real time more or less, and I thought it would have been _unrealistic_ to have Balvin go back home between the VMAs and the start of his tour. Lo and behold, the stories write themselves.


End file.
